


If your hands were in mine

by Anonymous



Series: My apple tree, my brightness [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Chinese Language, Class Issues, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Family Dynamics, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Romani & Travelers, Rummaness, Sibling Love, Singing, Slow Burn, Some things are handwaved but most are accurate, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27590293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Raphael and Tommy were friends ever since they were seventeen and nineteen, respectively. This was how it happened, and how they eventually became lovers.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Male Character(s)
Series: My apple tree, my brightness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016874
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Given the time period, there will be slurs used such as p*key, ch*nk and f*g. I have Chinese heritage so I most likely won't censor Chinese slurs, but I will use * or -- for other ones. If I get any culture or language wrong, please tell me. 
> 
> I'm not saying I'm 100% accurate about the historical things in this fic, but I do my best to research. And what I can't confidently say is completely accurate, I do my best to see if there is at least a precedent for it.
> 
> Please kudo and comment!

**Birmingham, Late January, 1909**

Tommy ambled along Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter, discreetly eyeing the shop windows. The other pedestrians shot him disdainful looks. One woman sniffed and pulled her coat tighter around her as he passed. Tommy resisted the urge to snarl a cutting remark her way. It had been a hard few weeks, and the cold hardly improved his temper.

Shouting from the opposite street distracted him from his pique. Tommy tracked the source to a shop called Lang & Co Jewellers. Like all the other families on this street of red-brick shops, the owners lived above their workplace. The first floor window was opened, despite the winter chill, and a young boy could be seen packing away ornaments in a cardboard box. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. A blond errand boy loitering on the pavement was cheeking him.

‘You’re going to live in poverty, Raphael!’ the errand boy jeered. ‘Did they teach you that in your posh school?’

Raphael’s pale fawn face twisted into a scowl. He stuck his head full of wavy black hair out the window and yelled, ‘Andrew! Did you know the headmaster told Mr Stone he taught me well?’

‘Please, everyone knows you bribed the headmaster so he’d let you in!’

‘I won my scholarship fair and square, thank you _very much_!’ The latter half of his sentence was said in an accent so upper-class it seemed borderline caricature.

Tommy almost snorted. Laying it on a bit thick, wasn't he? 

‘You’re too stupid to beat me! You must have cheated!’

‘This again? Stop being bitter, you josser! Move on already!’

People were beginning to stop and stare at the commotion.

‘I bet you’d get kicked out in a month, because your pa can’t buy you good grades anymore!’ Andrew pointed at Lang & Co’s “Closing Down Sale” sign.

‘Andrew Smith, don’t you _dare_ bring my family into this!’

‘Your ma’s a mick and your pa’s—'

The shop door was thrown open. ‘What did you say, you rotten lout?’ A tall woman bellowed. 

Smith shrank back. Widening his grey eyes, he pleaded his case. ‘Mrs Lang, I’m so sor—'

Mrs Lang pulled out her hairpin, almost dislodging her hat and revealing straight black hair pulled into a bun. She waved it threateningly in front of Smith’s nose. ‘Shut up! I’ve had it with you and your self-pity. What will your mother say if she could see you now?’

‘I—’

Mrs Lang slashed at his palm. Smith shrieked and tucked his hands under his armpits. Tommy rolled his eyes. It was so obviously a feint, yet Smith was in hysterics.

Spectators eagerly watched Mrs Lang lay into the boy. Seizing his chance, Tommy swiped watches and stole from unguarded bags. He slipped away before anyone realised what he was doing. Raphael Lang stared after him, head cocked in thought.

* * *

It was three days before Raphael saw the pickpocket again. He was coming home from school when he saw the thief lingering outside the shop. They were closing down, which meant stock would be packed into carts. Perfect time for him to lift something, if only they were actually getting on with it. His parents were purposefully dragging their feet, not wanting to leave their home for the past eighteen years.

‘Are you looking for work?’ Raphael called out.

‘Yes. Do you need any help moving?’ The pickpocket was a little older than him, but shorter and skinnier. The ragged coat he wore emphasised his painfully thin frame. His hair, dark as a crow's wing, emphasized the unhealthy pallor of his skin, while his icy blue eyes seemed to stare into Raphael’s bones. Despite his worn appearance, he was more handsome than Raphael expected.

’Not now. Maybe next week.’

‘Alright.’ The older boy turned away.

‘Wait.’

The piercing blue gaze met Raphael’s ink-black eyes. ‘What?’ he rasped. His voice was surprisingly deep for someone so small.

‘I might have a job for you.’ Raphael walked into the alley behind his home. The older boy shoved his hands into his pockets and followed Raphael.

They found themselves in a dusty but otherwise deserted back street. Raphael turned to the older boy, who was rubbing a cigarette across his generous lips in a very distracting manner before lighting it. Raphael could feel the older boy scrutinize his features. He never could pass for an Englishman. Nervously picking at the skin of his thumb, Raphael said ‘I know you’re a thief.’

‘I’m not.’ The boy looked offended. Raphael had to admit that the boy was the best liar he had ever seen.

‘I saw you pickpocketing yesterday.’

‘You must’ve mistaken me for someone else. Maybe you need glasses, eh? Scholarship boy like you—’

‘Look, I’m not interested in turning you in. I need your help.’

The older boy’s eyes narrowed. ‘How much do you pay?’

‘My father was swindled out of his money by someone he trusted very much,’ Raphael began.

‘I didn’t ask about your father, I asked how much you pay.’

‘We’ll split the profits in half. Now will you let me finish?’ he retorted. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’

‘Do you always talk like a bloody aristo?’ the older boy smirked up at him.

Raphael winced. ‘I do when I’m nervous.’

‘I bet it's because people make fun of how you speak at that posh school of yours.’ There was an unexpected gentleness in the older boy’s tone.

‘Yeah,’ Raphael said in his usual Brummie accent, albeit still much more refined than the older boy’s. ‘What’s your name?’

The older boy hmm’ed. ‘Tommy. And you’re Raphael. What’s the job, then?’

‘Before we work together, I have to know: are you scared of dogs?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edwardian era hatpins are around 6-8 inches long, but some reached 10 inches. Smith has good reason to be terrified.
> 
> Census figures indicate a total of 387 Chinese persons in 1901, mostly concentrated in London and Liverpool. Note that sometimes older censuses would record Chinese persons as people born in China, not British citizens of Chinese descent. Also, sometimes transient Chinese seamen were included. 
> 
> Birmingham's current Chinese population is the result of a largely post-WW2 migration. From my research the Chinese only started settling near the end of WW1, as screamed by a 1917 headline about 'The Chinese Invasion of Birmingham'. Prior to 1945 there were only a few dozen Chinese people in the city. The population then grew from just under 200 in 1951 to the 3,315 recorded in 1991 (Data from successive Population Censuses). 
> 
> While Chinese settlement is fairly new, Birmingham and China had trade relationships beginning in 1866, when Chinese authorities sent its first Imperial Commission to Europe to learn about and then adopt Western military technology and armament production. As one of the greatest manufacturing cities in the world, Birmingham was an important place for them to visit on their tour. China eventually set up a mint in 1887 using equipment from Ralph Heaton and Co, more popularly known as Birmingham Mint. 
> 
> Basically in this fic the first Chinese settlers came 30 years earlier, hoping for better jobs in Birmingham's factories. To stay true to population estimates, let's say there are 39 adults and 23 children in Birmingham.
> 
> (https://www.birminghammail.co.uk/news/nostalgia/birmingham-chinas-trade-relationship-during-7773966)
> 
> (how I imagine the shop is laid out: https://ia801903.us.archive.org/BookReader/BookReaderImages.php?zip=/19/items/RadfordsStoresAndFlatBuildings/RadfordsStoresandFlatBuildings0001_jp2.zip&file=RadfordsStoresandFlatBuildings0001_jp2/RadfordsStoresandFlatBuildings0001_0044.jp2&id=RadfordsStoresAndFlatBuildings&scale=4&rotate=0)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak a word of Irish. If anyone does, please correct me on the language.

‘So it’s agreed, then?’ Lang asked nervously.

‘Yeah.’ Tommy spat into his hand and offered it to Lang. Lang tried, and failed, to hide his grimace as he took off his gloves. Tommy smirked at his discomfort when he copied the gesture and they shook on it. His palm was surprisingly hard, and there were callouses on his fingers.

‘Are you _sure_ you can handle the dog?’

‘I can charm dogs. Gypsy witchcraft.’

Lang blinked. Tommy knew he didn’t look much like most of the other Romanichal who occasionally came to the Jewellery Quarter. But Lang probably wouldn’t say it, given that he was half-Irish, half-who-knew-what. There was no way the other half was English. Italian, maybe?

‘My father’s Chinese,’ Lang offered. ‘But Ma’s Irish.’

_Ah._ Lang’s nose, the angle of his cheekbones, and the angular shape of his deep-set eyes took on a new meaning. He’d seen people like Lang before, and he couldn’t believe he didn’t realise until Lang told him. It was the school uniform that threw him off. When he thought of Chinamen, he thought of laundrymen or factory workers—students were the last thing he associated with them. Not to mention the way his lanky frame towered over Tommy.

Then, hopefully, Lang asked ‘Do you think we can pull off other heists like this?’

‘Heist?’ Tommy said in disbelief. ‘This isn’t some _Boy’s Own Paper_ adventure.’

Raphael huffed. ‘Forgive me for being excited.’ His words were delivered in the cut-glass accent of the landed gentry.

‘What “other heists” does a bookworm like you want to do, anyway?’

‘Well, I want revenge on Johnson. And Smith, for what he said about my mother.’

‘Is there anything in it for me?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘You do that. For now, I’m going home.’

Tommy was almost on the main street before Lang said ‘Won’t you stay for tea?’

Tommy knew he should have said yes. Eating would give him an excuse to skip tea at home, which would mean more food for his siblings. What came out was ‘I thought you said your family needed money.’

‘So does yours.’

Tommy marched up to Lang. To his credit, Lang didn’t flinch back. Many men older and worldlier had backed away from Tommy Shelby on the warpath.

‘I don’t want your pity,’ he hissed. Christ, how tall was Lang? Five foot ten, eleven? The top of Tommy's head barely reached his nose.

‘It’s not. It’s—camaraderie.’

‘Well, I don’t want it either.’

‘Alright. But still, there’s a meat pie Pa bought so we can take a slice whenever we’re hungry. Do you want my share?’

Swallowing his pride, Tommy said yes.

* * *

Raphael led Thomas up the back stairs and into the first floor kitchen. Thomas gamely took off his shoes when asked to, but he didn’t bother to take off his cap or coat. Luckily Ciara was out with her friends and Jack was in the shop, so he wouldn't have to lie about Thomas's presence.

Raphael ushered him into the dining room and said ‘Please, sit down.’ He turned on the small stove they used for warmth instead of a lit fireplace and went back into the kitchen to wash his hands, secretly observing his new—colleague?—as he did so. Thomas's eyes ran over the walls, where Baba hadn't taken down the ceon zit decorations. They hung next to pictures of Raphael on his first day of grammar school, nervously staring at the camera in his uniform; there were pictures of Raphael, Jack, and Ciara on their first days of primary school, and their parents' wedding photos. He stared at an old studio picture of their family, his lip twisting. It wasn't a cruel expression, but it had a tinge of resentment to it. Maimeó, God rest her soul, sat on a bench and balanced three-year-old Ciara on her lap, while he and Jack sat on either side of her. Ba and Ma stood at both ends of the bench. Ba was smiling. His children followed his lead, creating a stark contrast to their serious-looking family members. 

Raphael took out the pie from the pantry and cut it into five slices. He put Thomas’s slice on a plate with a fork before starting the kettle.

Thomas ate the pie in slow, careful bites.

With a pang, Raphael recognised that Thomas was trying to make the pie last longer. He'd seen patients at the workhouse infirmary do the same to their meals, even though they had been told that they would be provided regularly.

‘Is it good?’ Raphael asked, pouring tea into two cups. He made sure to add more milk and sugar to Thomas’s.

Thomas nodded.

‘There’s some cheese, if you want. My mother bought it this morning.’ Seeing the look on Thomas’s face at the thought of _charity_ , Raphael hastened to add ‘Consider it a down payment for our deal.’

Thomas glared into the corner as Raphael cut the block of cheese in half. 

'I'd give you the whole block, but Ma will scold me for being greedy,' Raphael said apologetically.

His companion took the paper-wrapped cheese and bit out a “thank you”.

‘What’s the Chinese Quarter like?’ Raphael asked, trying to diffuse the awkwardness.

‘Very Chinese. Didn’t you say you’re moving there? Haven’t you been before?’

‘Pa takes us there every Sunday. And I have Chinese lessons on Wednesdays.’

‘Then why ask me?’

_Because I’m scared I’ll sound just like you even though I should feel at home._ Raphael shrugged. ‘Just wondering what you think of it.’

‘Their bookmakers are brilliant. They don’t just deal with horses, they take bets on cockfighting and mah-jong. The food’s cheap, and Zhang runs a good laundry.’

Thomas was only halfway through with the pie. Raphael scrambled for something to say. His family and where he lived would be a sensitive topic, surely. Christ, he was usually much better at making small talk. With patients, they were usually bored or in pain, and eager to talk. 

‘Are you still in school?’ 

He wanted to snatch the words back as soon as he said them. Thomas must think he was a blithering idiot.

As predicted, Thomas looked at him as though he had grown a second head, mixed with some mild contempt. ‘Would I be here if I am?’

Mercifully, he was also eager to escape, and he stuffed the remains of the pie in his mouth. Thomas gulped down his tea and said 'Right, then. I need to go home.’

‘Alright. Goodbye.’ Raphael followed Thomas to the door.

‘Stop that. There’s nothing for me to steal,’ Thomas said.

‘I’m just being polite.’

‘Save your politeness for your patients, Nurse.’ Thomas walked out the door without saying anything else.

‘It's "Orderly", you _prick_ ,' Raphael snapped. It was clear Thomas was unused to people being nice just for the sake of being nice. That didn't make punching him in the face sound any less appealing.

Raphael washed the crockery before preparing tea. God knew his mother needed the break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm confused on if the Shelbys are Romanichal or Irish Travellers. They were called tinker and p*key, insults used for Irish Travellers. And Polly made a reference in S3 to speaking Shelta and rokker, the former the language used by Irish travellers and the latter meaning 'speak' in Angloromani. I decided to make the Shelbys Irish Travellers on their father's side, Romanichal on their mother's side.
> 
> ceon zit: Chinese Spring festival in Cantonese
> 
> In modern times, we think of lunch and dinner as the midday meal and evening meal, respectively. In the early 1900s, dinner is the main meal of the day, with no time context. Having an evening dinner is a status symbol of the well-to-do, as it shows they can afford the lighting needed. The upper class have lunch/luncheon as the midday meal. Tea is the evening meal of the lower class, but they eat hot meals followed by cakes, bread and butter, and jam.
> 
> Even today, in most of the United Kingdom (namely, the North of England, North and South Wales, the English Midlands, Scotland, and some rural and working class areas of Northern Ireland) people traditionally call their midday meal dinner and their evening meal tea (served around 6 pm), whereas the upper social classes would call the midday meal lunch/luncheon and the evening meal (served after 7 pm) dinner (if formal) or supper (if informal).
> 
> In the past, hospitals were run by the middle- and upper-class to provide the poor with low-cost healthcare. They range from workhouse hospitals to elite voluntary hospitals. Some also treat only certain diseases, like say, scarlet fever. Doctors often volunteered in hospitals to build up their good name before entering private practice. I have no idea if hospitals let people volunteer as orderlies, but let's hand-wave that. (https://www.historyextra.com/period/20th-century/nhs-history-pay-healthcare-free/)
> 
> Raphael Lang's background I based on Mary Lang, from "The Spy In The House". It's the first book in a series about a Victorian era girl with a Chinese father and Irish mother. I love the way biraciality, ethnic ambiguity, and passing is discussed in the series. Mary obviously has non-English heritage, with her hair and eyes, but only Chinese people really clocked her as Chinese, as discussed in the second book. Other non-Chinese characters thought she was Spanish/French/Italian. Mary herself told everyone questioning her looks that her mother was Black Irish so she could pass herself as Caucasian for survival. Since most of the people she encountered never interacted with Irish or Chinese people, the half-truth stood.
> 
> maimeó means Grandma in Irish.


	3. Chapter 3

‘Fuck!’ Tommy shouted as he saw the Shelbys’ front room. Baby clothes surrounded the couch where a drunk Polly was lying. A spilled bottle of gin stained the carpet in front of her. The old floorboards squeaked under Tommy’s feet as he rushed to his aunt.

‘Tommy! You’re back!’ Ada exclaimed.

‘Where were you, Ada? Do I have to be the one who does everything?’ he snapped. ‘Why did you let her get this bad? How did she get the gin? Do you know what the nuns will say if they see her like this?’

Ada glared back at him. ‘She stole it. And I told her to wash up, but she didn’t listen! She just drank more and hugged Anna and Michael’s things!’

Tommy ground his jaws. Damn Polly. When his mother died, he didn’t act like this. He held himself together and took care of his siblings. Why couldn’t Polly do the same? After all, she had the Peaky Blinders to lead and a family to care for, with Dad having abandoned them and taking most of their money with him.

‘Help me get her to bed,’ he ordered. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How’s the baby?’

‘Finn’s alright.’

They laid Polly down on the old, rusty bed that creaked under her figure.

‘Strip her down. I’ll get water.’ He went back downstairs and filled a pitcher with water from the scullery tap. Christ, there hadn’t been the money for laundry for weeks. Ada, whose schooling they now couldn't afford, had been washing small things in the scullery, but it wasn't enough. He spotted a dusty but otherwise clean cloth on the countertop. It would have to do.

Tommy gave Ada the pitcher and kitchen cloth. ‘Pull her nightie off and wipe her down.’

Ada nodded. Tommy went back to the front room, grimacing at the mess Polly made and Ada's not-quite-expert housekeeping. He should have helped her out, but after a long day of petty thievery and then taking care of his family, maintaining the rarely used front room was the last thing on his mind. The nuns sniffed at him when he explained, but who cared what they said? He put his cap and jacket away, rolled his sleeves up, and got to work.

First was the carpet. Tommy poured water on the gin stain before hanging it in the back garden. Then he collected the baby clothes and packed them away in a kitchen drawer—but not before getting rid of the rat droppings that had piled up. No need for Polly to see her children’s clothes and go into another bender. Ada had swept the floor and dusted the furniture. All that was left to do was mopping, the windows, and the grates. He _hated_ doing the grates with a passion.

He mopped the front room before dealing with the windows. He grimaced as he lifted the yellowing lace curtains. The windows needed to be cleaned of grime, and dead flies competed for space on the windowsill. Back when Mum was alive, she kept the house. After she died, Polly helped with the cleaning and assigned their chores. She couldn't do it now, for obvious reasons. It left Tommy picking up the slack while his brothers dealt with the family business. Not that the business was making any profit these days. They could just about pay off the bettors' winnings with the Blinders' thieving, but it left them a very narrow margin to live on. It was why he was stealing; if he had any choice he would be working in the stables.

Tommy daydreamed of a charlady who would do the housekeeping as he cleaned the windowsill. It was completely unrealistic, and normally he'd brush his idle fantasies away. But after almost a month of dealing with a baby, a half-mad aunt, and nuns out to find something they could use to break up his family even more, he couldn't help it. He dreamt of a house in the country with a stableful of horses, with a charlady who came twice a week to sort things out. 

He was jolted out of his daydreams when he got a splinter on his thumb. Wincing, he plucked it out and washed his hands. He thought of Lang, who probably did this thousands of times at Solihull Union Workhouse Infirmary. How proud he was, too, as if scrubbing bedpans and bandaging booboos instead of playing football like a normal boy was anything to boast about. Tommy ignored the little voice saying he was only bitter that Lang was privileged enough to _choose_ to care for other people.

Eccentricity aside, Lang's plan was surprisingly solid, especially for a sheltered child. Tommy only had to change the distraction. The only problem was where to pawn off the brooch. Lang hadn’t a clue which pawnshop was unscrupulous enough to take something two boys had no business having, and Tommy’s usual haunts wouldn’t have enough cash to pay them a good value. They needed to pawn it off before the police put out word that the brooch was stolen. The only place that fit the bill was the one place no Shelby would be seen in, and he didn't know if Lang would stick to his word and split their earnings or if he would run off with all the money. After all, Hurst Street was only a stone's throw away from the Chinese Quarter. Lang was an earnest schoolboy, but Tommy knew from experience the possibility of poverty had a way of sweeping aside principles. 

He went to the scullery for the blacklead. The black lump had been soaked overnight in water. He took the chipped saucer and worn brush, laid newspapers round the grate, and proceeded to savagely use emery paper on the rust that had built up. It worked out most of his frustration. He brushed the now liquid polish over the grates, before cleaning up after himself.

'Tommy? Arthur said to come to Dad's office. He needs you.' Tommy turned to Ada. She was standing in their cast-offs holding Finn. Tommy's heart clenched at the sight. She should be in bright frocks and go to school, not wear her brothers' outgrown clothes and shouldering burdens too heavy for a fourteen-year-old. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that secondary schooling **—** or what passed for it in Small Heath Academy—wasn't free.

‘Tommy!' he squealed, reaching for him. 'Tommy, Tommy, Tommy!'

'Go wash up, Ada. I'll handle Finn.' Tommy took said one-year-old out of his sister's arms. Finn let out a happy gurgle as Tommy put him on his hip. 'What does Arthur want?' 

'He said there's going to be fighting and he needs your help.'

Tommy clenched his jaw. Couldn't his brother be relied on not to start a gang war? He had enough on his plate! Sensing the change in his mood, Finn started to fuss. Ada watched worriedly as Tommy rocked Finn.

'Tommy, what happens if you die?'

'The Shelbys will carry on, like always.'

'No, we won't! We-'

'Ada, scrub up and go to bed.' 

She huffed and did as she was told. Sighing, Tommy went to Dad's-well, Arthur's office now. If they had a gang war on their hands, Tommy was going to wallop him.

'Well, Arthur?' Tommy asked, leaning against the doorjamb. 'Who are we fighting and why?'

Arthur took a swig of rum. 'The Cheapside Sloggers want a thousand quid in exchange for leaving us alone.'

'Fuck.' 

'Where are we supposed to get the money, Tommy?' John asked. He chewed on a toothpick in his mouth.

'We're not giving them anything, John Boy. If we give in, it shows we're weak. Might as well lay on the street and let them kick us.'

'But there are more Sloggers than Blinders. We can't win a fight against them.'

'We need more men, but we don't have the money for it. It's a miracle we still have the old Blinders. I know they've been grumbling about getting paid less under me.' Arthur lit a cigarette. 'I've been thinking, we need to steal something from the BSA.'

Tommy chewed on his lip. It was a good idea. Arthur's schemes hadn't always been successful. They currently had four men in hospital and another seven in prison, with the remaining Blinders getting less money even though they technically had bigger shares after the reduced numbers. A successful theft would cement Arthur's leadership and rekindle loyalty among the men. 

'Steal what, Arthur? And when do the Sloggers expect the money?'

'They want it Monday.'

Tommy nearly choked on air. That was fucking impossible and their rival gang knew it. It was just to humiliate them before they took over Small Heath.

'This is Friday. We don't have a plan, or a buyer, or anything.'

'I _know_ , Tom.' Arthur snapped. 'I fucking know.'

John looked up at him hopefully. 'Any ideas, Tommy?' he asked what their older brother couldn't. 

Tommy straightened up. 'I have a job tomorrow. It'll get us fifty pounds.'

John whistled.

'It'll get us a hundred men,' Arthur said. 'What the hell are you planning, Tommy?'

'Doesn't matter. But I need a dog. A _trained_ one that knows just to scare someone and when to stop.'

'We've still got five bob from your last haul. Brown's our best bet. That what you need?'

Tommy nodded.

'We should have a toast,' Arthur said, raising his bottle, 'for your amazing plan!'

'Not yet, Arthur. We still have to think about after Monday.'

'What?'

'There's going to be deaths, Arthur. We'll have to pay off their families. And we don't know if the Sloggers will plan another attack after they recovered.'

'Right.' Arthur cleared his throat, embarrassed. 'Then we get seventy-five men, not a hundred. Set some aside for the families. After that, we'll rob the BSA blind.'

'Finding a buyer will take time we don't have. We need money to pay off the cops too, don't forget that. And food. We should go into the protection and smuggling business. Uncle Charlie just dabbles, but if we send the Blinders to help him out, we can _expand_.'

'That'll work,' John said. 'After we beat the Sloggers, people are gonna be scared of us. They'll give us the money, we can pay our men the usual. And we'll be back to normal.'

Tommy's eyes met Arthur's behind John. That was _if_ they beat the Sloggers. If they lost...

Tommy took a long draught from Arthur's bottle. For once, he was going to allow himself the luxury of not thinking of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The school-leaving age was 13. Technically primary education was practically free given that schools were given ten shillings per student. For the purposes of this fic, the entirely fictional Small Heath Academy provides education up to the age of 15. 
> 
> Working class homes of this period has a front room reserved for best, and a room behind it used as both a dining room and parlour. 
> 
> Solihull Union Workhouse Infirmary was a real hospital. It was opened in 1898 with 80 beds, and joined the NHS as Solihull Hospital in 1948. It's about an hour away from the Jewellery Quarter by bike. (the people in charge also set up a children's home in another place by the early 1900s. You know. Just saying😉)
> 
> There is some values dissonance here. Tommy disparaged Raphael being a volunteer orderly. During this era, caregiving is seen as a female thing. Additionally, they follow orders from the ward sisters and matron. So orderlies have a rough time of it.
> 
> From what I read, Birmingham's Gay Village only really started developing in the 1950s. And no matter how I looked there didn't seem to be many resources for Edwardian gay life in Birmingham, minus the show's TVTropes page saying there was a thriving gay prostitution industry in the time period. But given that the show gave us a bustling Chinese Quarter when it appeared later in the 20th century, let's just pretend that Hurst Street-an actual place and the center of the Village, was already an established institution. The historical gays in this fic deserve a community.
> 
> I read a meta by deadendtracks that basically raised the question of there being HistoryTM between the Shelbys and the Church, given Tommy's odd reaction with the nuns in S5. I decided that in my fic, the answer is a resounding yes. Mind you, my only brush with Catholicism is secondhand stories from my father, who was sent to a Catholic school in his teens because he was a rebellious boy and his parents hoped the harsh discipline will straighten him out, so if I got anything wrong, please tell me.
> 
> I find it hilarious I'm writing Tommy as furious at the possibility of a gang dispute when S2 has him start one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the title because it fit better than I will be your shelter. I don't like editing like that, but I guess that serves me right for not completing the work before posting.
> 
> Underlined words are in Cantonese.

Steam rose from the family's bowls—or plate, in Ma's case—of rice. Raphael pretended he didn't notice Baba discreetly switching their bowls of chicken soup while Ma was distracted. Their situation had caused her to unconsciously fall back on old habits taught to her in girlhood, in which the breadwinner of the family was given the most nourishment. Baba had talked to her about it, but she still slipped occasionally. 

Raphael used his chopsticks to put another strip of pork jerky on his father's bowl of rice.

'Thank you, Wang Qing,' his father smiled at him. 

'You're welcome, Ba,' Raphael said. He gauged the mood of the dining table. His brother was sulking again. His sister was oddly quiet. His mother was obviously trying to get them to cheer up, judging by the looks she shot them. 

'Ma, are we getting the shop back?' His sister said abruptly. 

His brother's head shot up.

'What? Of course not, Ciara. What made you say that?' said their mother. 

Ciara shrugged. 'You said we'll have to eat less, but it didn't happen. So I thought maybe things aren't so bad anymore.'

_Oh fuck._ Raphael frantically cast about for a distraction. 

'I need new shoes,' he blurted out. That was the wrong thing to say. 

'I'll take you shopping tomorrow,' Ba said.

_With what money?_

Jack, for whom their new finances hadn't quite sunk in, was incensed. 'So when I ask for a new cap for _ceon zit_ , you say no, but when _go go_ wants new shoes, you'll buy it for him?' he snapped.

In more prosperous times, they had the money for two new sets of everything, but this year their parents had to ration their money just to afford replacing what they really needed.

'Don't take that tone with your father, young man,' their mother said as their father gave him a hard look.

'You don't even know what I said, Ma.'

'You can still use your old cap, Qian Yao. But good shoes are a must.'

Chastened, Jack mumbled an apology.

'It's okay, Ba. My ward boots still fit -'

'Absolutely not,' his mother said, scandalised. 'They'll think you're wearing charity boots. What will people say?'

'Nothing they haven't said before.' 

'Exactly. You have to prove them wrong.'

Raphael almost said 'I have nothing to prove', or 'What they say is true, I don't have to deny it' but held his tongue. The conversation moved on to other topics.

Ciara talked about getting praised for her sewing assignment at school. Their father ruffled her hair with a 'Good job, Ling Yun'. Raphael lamented how nonsensical his newest art homework was. How on earth was he supposed to draw 'noise'?

'What about you, Jack?' Ma smiled at her second child.

Cheeks pinking, Jack stammered out that he spent the afternoon sketching unsold stock.

'That's good,' their father praised him. 'You get drawing practice and you might get inspiration for your own designs.'

Jack's face scrunched up in thought. 'You know, Pa, I'm leaving school this year. And you can't make me apprentice because the shop's gone. Maybe I should get a job.'

'Absolutely not.'

'That's a good idea.' Their parents stared at each other in disbelief.

'Bingwen, you know what Jack says makes sense. We need the money.'

'Fiona, I work hard so my children won't have to. Jack should just enjoy being a child. I don't understand you-you don't want Raphael to wear boots because it will look bad, but you'll let Jack work?'

'That's because his school is full of rich boys. One little difference and they kick hell out of him. But Jack's not the scholarly type, and he doesn't have a jeweller's he can train in anymore. So he needs a job. It's not like I'm telling him to work in a factory; I thought he might draw ads for Chinese shops.'

'But everyone pays Laoshi to do that,' Ciara piped up. 'No one's going to hire a little boy-'

'You're ten, and I'm thirteen!' Jack said hotly. 'And I helped with our ads. How is that different, Pa?'

'Ad work is part of being an apprentice. You working for someone else is not. Just focus on your art for now, so you can get a scholarship to a design school.'

'But-'

'Jack.'

'Alright.' 

Raphael looked up from his homework when his father entered his room.

'What are you working on?' Pa asked.

'A French essay.'

'That's the language you hate, isn't it? Is it difficult?'

'Not really. Just annoying.'

Pa stopped lingering at the door and sat on his bed.

'So,' he said. Pa only spoke English to his children when Serious Business was about to be discussed. 'You said that thing about shoes when your ma was about to talk about food. I talked to Fiona. She said her purse always had more than expected. She thought it was me. It was not. What did you do?'

'I sold my dinner to the other boys,' Raphael admitted.

'Then what did you eat?'

Raphael couldn't look his father in the eye as he said 'When the school master said who wanted free dinners, I stood up and took the ticket.' 

'Raphael.'

'I had to do it. You know I had to.'

Pa sighed. 'Well, it's done. No use fussing. But how did you do it?'

'Ma's been out at dinner lately. I don't know where she goes. I eat my school dinner, get papers or handkerchiefs from the other boys, go home, pack up my dinner, and go back to school.' 

'Jack and Ciara let you do this?'

'I always come in just when they're going back to school. I told them this term's schoolwork is the devil and I had to ask the school master questions.'

'You have to stop this. You have to focus on school.'

'I can't focus if I'm hungry, or if you and Ma skip meals,' Raphael pointed out. 'And it works, doesn't it?'

'It's not your job, Raphael. I-'

'You've got a lot of things going on, Pa.'

'So do you. You didn't get a scholarship to Blackwood Grammar School to sell food like a tuck shop owner.'

Pa never said '"school", he always called it by its full name, as though he still couldn't quite believe that his son managed to get in even after six years.

'Times change. Look, when we move, I'll stop doing it. How does that sound, Pa?'

'Do you _promise_ not to do anything like that again?'

'No.'

' _Raphael_.'

'I'll just do the other boys' homework for a shilling each.'

'Do you want the school master to cane you?' Pa snapped. 

'No. But they're always trying to bully me into it anyways. Might as well charge them for it.'

Pa remained unmoved.

'I can get more practice for school, and I get spending money. It's a win-win situation.'

'You're going to do this no matter what I say, aren't you?'

'Yes, Pa.'

'Fine then. Just don't get caught. Do you have the money for new shoes?'

Raphael shook his head. He got off his desk and sat beside his father, squeezing his hands into fists to avoid picking his thumb. 'I think I can get the money next week. It's only five bob, after all.'

Pa didn't know he would be stealing a brooch from "a lady of quality". Hah! The only "quality" Mrs Morris had was condescension. Everyone hated her, but they put up with her monthly visits because her charity helped a lot of the workhouse inmates.

'Alright then. Be careful, you hear?'

Raphael thought of the risks involved and had to bite down a giddy laugh. 'Of course, Pa.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ceon zit: Chinese Spring festival. In 1909 it was celebrated on January 22.
> 
> Go Go: term for older brother in Cantonese
> 
> Blackwood Grammar School doesn't actually exist, but I based it on Handsworth Grammar School. Google maps says it's 11 minutes by bike from the Jewellery Quarter. I read somewhere in Ye Olde Skoole Dais you get an hour off for the midday meal-referred to as dinner-so Raphael can in theory scarf his school dinner and sell his home dinner to the other boys.


End file.
